Free The Undertakers Gift by Trevor Baxendale Page B

saw last night,’ Ray said at last. ‘They creeped me out then and they did it just now, in broad daylight. They’re just so. . . horrible. They make me feel dirty just seeing them.’
    ‘Yeah, well, they’re all done up like something from Halloween,’ Wynnie observed. ‘I bet they’re having a right laugh at us now.’
    ‘You think?’ Ray sounded doubtful and Wynnie shrugged. Ray felt sure that the strange, dark figures were utterly bereft of any sense of humour. ‘Do you think we should go back and look again? See if they’re still there?’
    ‘No way,’ Wynnie said quickly.
    ‘Wait a sec,’ Ray said, reaching for her mobile. She opened it and speed-dialled Gillian. It rang a couple of times and then switched to her familiar voicemail response:
    ‘Hi you’re through to Gillian. I can’t take your call right now, but if you’re interesting enough I’ll get back to you soon. Cheers.’
    Ray flipped the phone shut. ‘No answer.’
    ‘Busy?’
    ‘Gillian screens her calls – she’d pick up if she knew it was me calling. And besides, she’s supposed to be waiting for us at the Black House.’
    ‘If she saw those guys hanging around then she probably took off double quick, like we did.’
    Ray frowned at the silent mobile in her hand. ‘Then why hasn’t she called to tell me that?’

EIGHTEEN
    They convened in the Boardroom. Jack tried to keep the meeting informal by perching on the edge of the table. ‘So, what we got?’
    ‘OK,’ said Gwen, sitting up. ‘Here it is.’ She used the remote control to bring up the internet blog entry on the main screen. Several words were highlighted: funeral, cortège, Torchwood.
    Ianto peered at the screen. ‘It’s by a student at Cardiff University.’
    ‘It seems the world and his wife and even their kids have heard of us now.’ Jack had never liked Torchwood getting any kind of publicity.’
    ‘A special force called Torchwood,’ Ianto read out appreciatively. Then his lips curled down in distaste. ‘“Like the X-Files but in Cardiff”. Huh. Dream on, Mulder.’
    ‘I always thought he was quite a fox,’ said Jack.
    ‘Please,’ Ianto said. ‘Any more and my sides will split.’ He nodded at the screen. ‘Who are these people, really? The person writing the blog, I mean?’
    Gwen called up an ID document on the screen – it was a Student Union card complete with photo of a pale, rather plain-looking girl with dark hair and heavy black eyeliner. ‘The blog is written by one Rachel Banks, undergraduate. Born 16 April 1990, Leicester. Nothing special, nothing outrageous, nothing abnormal. Parents split up when she was thirteen, dad went out to work in Dubai, she lived with her mam in Bristol. Came to Cardiff to study Ecology, but according to her course tutor is likely to switch to Zoology at the end of the year. Staying in digs in Colum Road.’
    ‘And Wynnie?’ prompted Jack.
    ‘Meredydd-Wyn Morgan-Kelso,’ said Gwen, flicking the remote. A different Student Union ID pass came up on the screen. This one showed a picture of a tall, thin lad with unkempt blond hair, facial studs and rather soft brown eyes. ‘Born 24 November 1985, Hengoed. Nothing special, nothing outrageous, nothing abnormal – unless you count an abiding interest in Heavy Metal, comics and a post-grad research position at Cardiff School of Chemistry – he’s currently completing an MSc in Catalysis. And, of course, there’s his name. Bit of a mouthful, hence “Wynnie”. I think it’s rather nice.’
    ‘What do you call a double double-barrelled name?’ wondered Ianto.
    ‘Quadruple-barrelled?’ Jack suggested.
    ‘Whatever,’ said Gwen. ‘I’m guessing he’s a mate, boyfriend, it doesn’t matter. But he’s the one who mentions Torchwood.’
    ‘And what does he know about us?’
    ‘I doubt he knows anything. He’s heard the name, that’s all. He’s a member of the university astronomy club, writes for the Union website and once subscribed to Fortean